A/N: A series of porny oneshots; chapter one originally written for a tumblr user, which explains the rushed quality. I told her I would take longer posting this, but I lied (I'm sorry, I'm shy about my smut account). Disregard chapter titles – they make sense only to me.

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01. JFK's Birthday Song
Korra does not need experience to dominate.

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"You're being too rough," he says, after the match, after they've just won, a lucky strike.

"I'll show you rough," she replies, in a hiss, under her breath, slamming him against the lockers. Mako takes a second to realize that she is talking back to him, and then he feels his mouth set on fire as he grits his teeth, closes his hands into fists.

"Don't you talk to me like that," he says, pulling on her arm, and Korra twists and pivots behind him, pushing his hand behind his back.

"Don't think you've any semblance of control." She lets him know that he is putty in her hands by shoving her leg between his, setting his stance apart, weakening it, breathing into his ear.

He tastes the metal surface of Bolin's locker when he talks (who's just outside, entertaining two fans of the Fire Ferrets): "You have two seconds to let me go—"

"Or what?" she retorts, shifting her leg into the bow of his, slinking into his personal space. "You don't seem to be in a position to do much." It's true and he hates her for it. He hates her for getting the upper hand this time; hates her for the heat pooling on his face and groin, for the quiver of his knees when her chest slides against his back. "I suggest you keep your complaints to yourself for now, pretty boy."

She lets her other hand cover his, and entwines their fingers. Korra then sucks in a tiny gasp, like she's remembered something particularly important, and Mako tries looking over his right shoulder without dislodging his left (she hasn't yet let go of his hand; it bends like crystal glass and if he moves around too much, he knows it will break). He finds her eyes instead, focused on his. And then she's tip-toeing, leaning against him, sandwiching him between the wall and her torso. His hips are given breathing space and he wonders if it's a planned thing.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks, her accusing tone completely gone.

Mako's cheek is pressed to the wall, but he wouldn't turn away if he could (he tells himself the opposite). Their noses are almost touching. He thinks about kissing her.

"I don't know," he answers, a half-truth, and she chuckles.

"Liar," Korra says, and leans in. He wants more instantly, trying to go after her when she parts; the painful twinge of his arm doesn't let him. "Tell me what you think about at night," she says then, and it's an order, or maybe a mean of forgiveness, he can't tell which. He swallows, smacks his tongue, tries to get some saliva into his mouth. Doesn't work. She senses his reticence, and eases on the pressure.

"I—" he tries, and falls short. Korra's mouth opens into a smile as she leans in again.

"Oh, so you do want this," she says, directing his right hand into his inner thigh. He doesn't answer. She clicks her tongue, impatient, and sighs. Her breath is hot, but he's sweating, so his skin welcomes the breeze. "You're in denial," she says, and Mako almost chokes as he replies:

"I'm not in fucking denial."

She laughs.

"You're drowning in it."

Another inch, her hand on top of his. His knees are bent and won't last much longer. He feels the drained muscle pull, shiver.

"Do you," she inhales, and her voice softens, "do you ever touch yourself thinking of me?"

… Spirits.

Her voice is not completely neutral when she asks; she's casual but curious, her curiosity and boldness paving the way. Mako closes his eyes.

"I bet you do." Another inch. Her thumb scratches at the end of his belt. "What do you think about? What works for you?"

He grits his teeth so hard, he hears them grind. Korra huffs, frustrated, and it reminds him of Bolin's childish fits about buying the more expensive brand of fire flakes. It's probably the parallel that undoes him. She's pulling away—

"I—wait," he says, in a whisper. Her face closes as she acquiesces, their intertwined hands halting. She's let go of his left arm. "I—just—" he frowns, "just wait, okay?"

"Yes," Korra says, not-quite smiling, her eyes half-lidded, turning to his. "Yes." He wants to tear away his gaze but finds himself incapable of doing so. Korra rewards him with a kiss. It does more harm than good. She's good, but she can be bad, and the slight peck she gives him is nothing compared to what she could do. "Go on."

"I can't."

"You can."

"I can't—!" She slides another inch; all it takes is for him to take a deeper breath and he can feel the tips of his fingers against his dick. He's torn between angling his hips a little (and further embarrassing himself) or waiting. Mako's always been a more tactical kind of guy – he evens his breathing, waits for her strategy, hopes she's got one. He's terrible at anarchy. Korra, on the other hand, excels at it.

(She's dropped her smile for a while. She's serious.)

"We don't have time for this."

He knows that. He hasn't forgotten Bolin is outside. He's not that terrible at being an older brother. She closes her eyes and sighs, and Mako can almost hear the whirrs inside her head as she tries to think of an elegant solution. There is none – he's thought ahead, as usual – and this leaves them at a stand-still. Korra just shrugs (of course she does).

"How long does this usually take?"

"What does?" he replies, and she gives him a meaningful look.

… Oh.

"I don't—"

"Fine, be that way," Korra says, barring him of complaining, and then she pushes his palm onto his pants. He breathes and feels the metal against his face fog over. She pauses a few seconds after, her voice wavering. She's glaring at the locker, swallowing before speaking. "If I don't – " she inhales, relaxes; he feels her pulse in time with his, "if I don't get this right, you'll tell me." He nods twice, overexcited. "Good boy," she croons, and digs into his hand harder.

Mako allows himself to press his hips against his hand, and it feels alien to him. He recognizes his own body, but she's the one picking the direction of his palm, the way his wrist turns, if her fingers tighten around his knuckles. He wonders how long until she gets tired, how long until he comes, if this is a sprint or a marathon. Korra uses her other hand and pulls on his hair, just slightly, to get him to turn. And then she kisses him, open-mouthed and inexperienced, but hot and heavy. She drops his hand and he's glad his tongue is in her mouth because the disappointed groan he makes is muffled, but then he feels the slightly calloused skin of her fingers sliding between the band of his pants. His stomach tightens at the same time he bites on her lip. Korra is flushed and looking like the romantically-challenged girl she is, but when she reaches the destination, she grins at him, teeth and feral nature bared. His breath drags when her other hand joins.

"Kiss me."

She's asking nicely. He does, and is rewarded with the gliding motion of her hands, with the exquisite feel of her hands, with the fascinated glint in her gaze. She's eating him up with her eyes; the thought of it makes him crumble. Mako lets out a hiss when his knees hit the floor of the locker room. Korra remains standing tall, looking at him, analyzing the waves – the shaking, the fisted hands, the way his eyes try so very hard to meet hers when he's coming (it's worth it).

There's a silence, half-interrupted by his feeble attempts at getting his breath under control.

Korra wipes her hands on a towel, hanging off the back of a chair, and then bends over at the waist, grabbing him by the chin. Her eyes are bright, vivid, electric (scared?).

"Happy birthday," she says, and doesn't kiss him.

He feels the fire rush through his cheeks and ears, searing him, when he realizes what just transpired, her semblance of a birthday present. Korra straightens, and spins on the ball of her foot, ready to go. Mako grabs at the closest locker handle and gets up, trailing after her, pulling on her arm (and letting go as soon as he realizes that he's repeating the cause to the effect they are currently in). She's red, as well, but refuses to look away.

"Yes?" she asks, levelly. Mako needs to think for a moment before he gathers his thoughts, and then he straightens his spine, makes their height difference more obvious, tries his best to look like he hasn't been ravished.

"I – I'm going to get even," he says (promises).

Korra blinks, and, despite the blush on her face, she looks secure of herself. As always.

"My birthday is in the summer," she says, matter-of-factly, and then walks away, with wide steps; she's an expert at pretending she is not running away.

He sits on the bench closest to him, lets his head fall onto his hands, and then he closes his eyes and presses the palms of his hands against them, trying to drive the heat off his face, off his stomach, trying to drive her off his mind.

It will never, ever work.